Harry woke up early on his birthday morning. Errol had already disappeared; apparently, his friend Ron's owl had taken flight as soon as he had felt better. Harry shook his head softly, a small grimace on his face—that owl was pushing itself too hard. He got dressed and went downstairs for breakfast.
The television, which had been bought for Dudley for his "excellent" academic results, was on. The news was reporting on a prisoner who had escaped from an institution. Harry's eyes fixed on the man: his hair was long and unkempt, his features pronounced from extreme thinness, with his bones clearly showing, and he had a deranged look in his eyes.
"You don't need to tell us he's a bad guy!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. "What a disgusting, lazy look."
Harry frowned. There were things about that news that didn't sit right with him. They had only said the criminal was very dangerous and had escaped from prison. He didn't like that lack of information. On the other hand, he doubted anyone would look like that while in a penitentiary unless they were deteriorating from drugs or some sort of illness.
Harry barely reacted to his uncle's complaints during breakfast, but he snapped to attention when he heard about Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's sister. She was a horrible woman who had given Harry a much worse time than Uncle Vernon had, on every visit she'd made to Privet Drive. The woman hated him, and the feeling was mutual. Harry stifled the urge to curse and quickly devised a plan. He got up and followed his uncle.
"I'm not driving you anywhere."
"I wasn't going to ask you that, Uncle Vernon. I wanted to make you a proposal."
"I don't have time now. Maybe at the end of the week, if you've been well-behaved."
"That's precisely what this is about. This week, Aunt Marge, and the rest of the summer."
"You've got two minutes."
"I know what you told the neighbours about the school I attend. A difficult fact to remember, don't you think?"
"You wouldn't dare," Uncle Vernon said. Harry could hear the fear in his voice.
"Don't worry. I won't sweep the dirt out from under the carpet," Harry said calmly, enjoying the moment. He thought it was fun to play this way, but he was on a tight schedule, and his uncle wasn't exactly known for his patience. "What would you think if I disappeared with my things for the rest of the summer? Without any of my oddities coming to the surface."
"You can't do magic outside of school."
"Not legally. But I can always tell everyone in my class how comfortable the cupboard is. That's something you don't want, is it?" He smiled calmly. "But let's leave aside the worst-case scenario. You sign a school permission form for me, and I disappear for the rest of the summer. It's that simple. You wouldn't have to see me again until next summer."
"The neighbours..."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon. The neighbours will find it comforting to know that you sent me to a military-style summer camp to temper my character. I even think Aunt Marge would compliment you on it."
"Bring me that permission form, and I'll sign it for you. Then you leave."
"Deal."
Half an hour later, Harry was dragging his trunk down the street to the bus stop. He didn't know how he was going to pay for the trip to London since he only had a few Galleons on him. He had gathered his things quickly and let Hedwig go to avoid attracting attention. The permission form was safely tucked away; he wasn't going to miss the Hogsmeade excursions for anything in the world. He was looking at a route map when one of Hermione's comments came to mind about something that didn't exist in the Middle Ages: the Knight Bus. It could be a good way out of this situation.
He took his wand out of the pocket of the thin jacket he was wearing—a jacket, like his other clothes, that was far too big. Something he thought he would remedy soon. He held it out as if he were flagging down a taxi, and a few seconds later, a triple-decker bus appeared before him. He smiled. He had a ride.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I'm at your service."
"I'd like to go to Diagon Alley. Can you take me?"
"Course," Stan said. "That'll be eleven Sickles. For thirteen, we give you a cup of hot chocolate, and for fifteen, a hot-water bottle and a toothbrush."
"I think I'll just take the single ticket, thanks."
When he got on the bus, he saw that it was full of tables with seats around them. He paid for his ticket and sat down in one of the chairs, clutching his trunk tightly. There was a newspaper on the table. He reached out to pick it up and read, distracting himself from the enormous speed at which the bus was travelling. His gaze darkened as he recognised the man on the front page. It was the man from the Muggle news. If this man was a wizard and the Muggles had been alerted, it must have meant it was a very serious matter.
THERE IS STILL NO CLUE OF SIRIUS BLACK'S ESCAPE.
Last week, there was an incident with no witnesses. One of the prisoners in a high-security institution escaped. Authorities have no leads at the moment. The escaped prisoner, Sirius Black, is a murderer who was the Dark Lord's right-hand man when he was in power. For now, there is no clue as to the criminal's whereabouts.
"Sirius Black comes from one of the families with the worst reputations in our world—a family closely linked to the Dark Arts. He's certainly one of the worst dark wizards we've ever had to deal with," Minister Fudge declared at an extraordinary press conference. "He is very dangerous and completely mad. Anyone who encounters him will be in imminent danger, so I recommend to the magical population that if he is seen, do not confront him. Immediately notify the Ministry, which will send a team trained to deal with this murderer."
We remind our readers that twelve years ago, the day after the Dark Lord's capture, Black was directly responsible for the deaths of thirteen Muggles and a wizard with a single spell in the heart of Muggle London. He is also suspected of multiple criminal acts related to the activities of the Dark Lord's followers while he was alive. In the meantime, the Minister has made the Muggle authorities aware, which has annoyed certain sections of our society who still haven't forgotten the treatment they gave us in the past.
"Catching Black is vitally important to everyone. He's a very dangerous criminal for both us and Muggles. The more people who are on alert, the better—the sooner we will capture him," the Minister justified. "We've told Muggles that Black is armed with a retroverse—a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other." So we can only hope that our Ministry, joining forces with Muggles, will soon catch Black.
Harry sighed, pushing the newspaper away. From that short article alone, it was clear that this man, Sirius Black, was no joke. If he were to compare him to anyone, he was someone more dangerous than Quirrell, and Harry didn't know how his level of evil measured up to Tom Riddle's. He waited, almost wishing he wouldn't get too close to the situation. It was a threat he knew he could deal with, given his previous experience, but at the same time, he knew it wasn't wise to go looking for him. Not without more information that could help him set a trap or hunt him down. Acting without a plan was Godric's business, wherever he was now, if he was. Harry wasn't like that. He closed his eyes. Although he knew who he was, who had awakened, he was still Harry. He shouldn't fail to keep that in mind. It was the name by which he would be recognised. Now he understood what the Sorting Hat had seen and what he, in his vulnerability, had refused to see. He would look for a way to control the house he founded; he would take advantage of every opportunity that presented itself.
"We're here... You haven't told me your name."
"Thank you," Harry replied. He was grateful that his fringe covered his scar. He didn't want anyone to monitor his movements or know that he wasn't at his aunt and uncle's house. Dumbledore had been very insistent that he should spend his summers with them.
He got off the bus and went into the Leaky Cauldron, dragging his trunk. The pub was quite full with a clientele as varied as the previous two times he had been there. He approached the bar, hoping the innkeeper could serve him. Harry knew the man recognised him as soon as he saw him, but he didn't say anything, which was a contrast to when Hagrid had escorted him before his first year. Harry was grateful for it.
"Good morning, Tom. I'd like to rent a room until the end of the summer."
"Of course, it's two Galleons a week. I'll give you room number eleven."
"Two Galleons a week, four weeks I'm going to be here, that makes eight Galleons. I'll offer you sixteen in exchange for absolute discretion. I'll pay ten in advance and the other six at the end of the summer. What do you think?"
He didn't need a verbal response from the innkeeper. Harry could see in his eyes how much he liked the deal. Harry knew the man wasn't going to reveal anything, just as he also knew that sooner or later, someone would recognise him, and the gossip would spread. This would only buy him some time—a few days, maybe a week.
He took the key to what would be his room until the end of the summer and went upstairs to settle in. It didn't take long. He hid the broom in a corner behind a curtain and put his books on a shelf next to the desk. As for the robes and uniforms, they were now too short for him, so he was going to donate them to the second-hand shop. He would buy new clothes, Muggle clothes too; he wouldn't wear his cousin's worn-out and oversized clothes again. The first place he was going to go was Gringotts.
He stepped out into the backyard of the Leaky Cauldron and tapped the third brick with his wand over the bin, opening the portal to Diagon Alley. He smiled as he entered that commercial stronghold. There weren't many people in the streets, but he still quickened his pace toward the bank. He walked past the second-hand robe shops, stopping to drop off his old robes. Then he went straight to the bank.
"Good morning," he greeted as he entered. The goblins looked at him strangely. He deduced that they were not greeted very often. He went to one of the counters. "I'd like to speak with an account manager to find out the status of my account, or accounts, in case I have more than one."
The goblin looked him up and down as if carrying out a scrutiny, as if analysing him. He seemed surprised; it must not have been a very common request these days, which made Harry wonder how many people had neglected their fortunes and investments.
"Bagdod will see to you, Mr. Potter. Please wait a few minutes."
"Thank you."
The wait was not very long. They took him to an office where the goblin who attended to him already had the statements from his bank account and handed him the documents. Only what was available in the trust vault remained. He frowned; as far as he knew from what he had heard at Hogwarts, the Potters were a wealthy family. How could it be that he only had a tenth of what should have been his family's fortune left?
"May I know how this came to be?"
"The war."
Harry frowned. Wars needed funding. With those two words, the goblin had said it all. His parents had spent all the money on funding Dumbledore. Anger ran through him; he couldn't believe they could have been so irresponsible as not to think about the future. He wanted to know the details and how it was that his father hadn't been advised, or perhaps he had just ignored the advice. There was no way of knowing.
"Please, go on," he asked the goblin. As painful as it was, he preferred the truth.
"His paternal grandparents died before his father finished his final year at Hogwarts, and having no other relatives, since they had perished in the previous great wizarding war, there was no one to advise him on the management of the family fortune. His mother came from the Muggle world, and all she had saved over the years became part of the family fortune when she married."
"I see. I suppose I won't have any kind of investment," he ventured.
"The shares your family had in several companies were sold to finance the war. It was the first thing that was done."
"Right. With what I have in my vault, I suppose it's enough to finish my education at Hogwarts and live comfortably for a while, but what's left of my life would leave my future offspring with nothing, if I had any," he summarised, calculatingly.
"That's right, Mr. Potter. You currently have fifteen thousand Galleons in the vault."
"First, I would like to open a second vault where I would transfer half of that small fortune. About seven thousand five hundred Galleons. I will use that amount to make different investments. Can that be done?"
"You're thirteen, Mr. Potter. It can be done. Although the age of majority is seventeen before the Ministry, we abide by the old rules. So you are considered fit to revive your fortune as you are the only Potter left."
"Excellent. Tell me, what stocks are available for purchase?"
"The Daily Prophet has offered a quota of shares—forty per cent of the newspaper is available."
"Who has the other fifty?"
"The Ministry of Magic has twenty per cent of the shares, and the other forty per cent is in the hands of one of the most important fortunes today."
"What would the benefits be?" he wanted to know. He was mentally thinking about who could have the other part of the investment. The problem was that he didn't know who the most economically powerful families were at that time. The Malfoys were one of them, but he wasn't going to consider the most obvious choice. "The Prophet can be an excellent investment."
"Each ten per cent pack of shares represents two per cent of annual sales, in addition to receiving the newspaper for free and for life."
The newspaper cost three Knuts. At Hogwarts, all the students of Slytherin bought a copy, as did those in Ravenclaw and most of those in Hufflepuff. The teachers each had a copy, and Harry was sure the members of the Ministry of Magic did the same, not to mention private homes. It was cheap, but so many copies were bought that it was worth it. If he calculated it with the profit of a single newspaper, three Knuts every day meant 1095 Knuts at the end of the year, 1098 if the year was a leap year. Two per cent of that amount was about 21 Knuts. It was a good profit to begin with.
"You are not the only one interested in these shares. That forty per cent is sold for two hundred and fifty Galleons, and the newspaper has received offers that reach double that amount."
"Offer the newspaper fifteen hundred for that pack; if necessary, it will go up to two thousand."
"As you wish, Mr. Potter. Any other provisions?"
"Any business that with your wisdom you could recommend to me?"
"A shop in the Alley; it sells ingredients for exotic potions. It doesn't have an exorbitant sales rate, but it does have a wide profit margin."
"And I suppose few will dare to invest in it."
"Seventy per cent of the shares are available."
"Invest four thousand Galleons for those shares."
"That would leave you with only a thousand Galleons in that vault, Mr. Potter. The benefits of these investments would not begin to be seen until the end of this year."
"Do it. I know it's risky, but I think it can be beneficial. What's more, with what you earn from those investments, you'll be licensed to invest half of those profits as you see fit."
"You know that in the case of handing over the complete management of your investments to the bank, it takes a commission of seven per cent, right?"
"I didn't know. But between you and me, let's make the commission for the bank fifteen per cent."
With those words, he had left the goblin completely surprised and disoriented. That movement was not normal for a wizard. He remembered well from his previous life what goblins were like; they liked gold above all and charging several times for a product manufactured by them and sold to wizards. So the best way to keep them happy and on his side was precisely that: to give them more than they asked for. He knew that in their own greed, they would manage those investments masterfully.
"Very well, Mr. Potter. The procedures have already begun. I will need you to come in a couple of days to sign the contracts for the purchase of the shares."
"I'll be here," he said. "Now I would like to withdraw some money from my initial vault; and also exchange some Galleons for Muggle money."
"Griphook will accompany you to your vault."
He left the bank aware that between one procedure and another, he had been inside for just over an hour. The first thing he did was return to the Leaky Cauldron, pay the innkeeper what he had promised, and put the rest of the Galleons in his room. He then ventured into the Muggle world. With the faces he was wearing, he couldn't go to any flashy store, so he went into a bargain shop and bought a couple of jeans his size, a long-sleeved shirt, a couple of T-shirts that made him laugh a little, and some trainers to get by.
He kept walking until he reached a shopping centre, where he immediately went to the men's toilets and completely changed his clothes. It wasn't the weather for a long-sleeved shirt, it was hot, so he put on one of the T-shirts and the jeans. The jeans were black, the T-shirt was purple, and it had a logo in the shape of a laurel wreath and the initials S.P.Q.R. He didn't know what they meant. He threw the clothes inherited from his cousin where they belonged: in the bin. Then he went on a pilgrimage through the shops, doing some shopping. He didn't buy much—only what was necessary—for he had no room in his trunk, nor did he consider it wise to attract attention until he knew his situation and that of others completely.
He ate in the shopping centre and, since he was acting like a Muggle, he did what a normal Muggle teenager would do. He walked into the cinema and bought a ticket for the first showing of a random movie. It was late afternoon, almost night, when he returned to the Leaky Cauldron. His first day of freedom had not been bad at all.
The next morning, he went down early to breakfast with his school supplies list. Half an hour later, he entered Diagon Alley. His first stop was Ollivanders, where he bought a sheath for his wand. He would clip it to his forearm so that he always had it at hand and could react quickly. The second stop he made was the robe shop, where he purchased a full kit of uniforms and robes that included a pair of Gryffindor Quidditch team robes. He still laughed at the irony of that.
"I'd like a pair of normal robes too, just in case," he asked the clerk, pointing to a green one in the shade of water and another navy blue like the deepest ocean.
"Here you are, young man."
He paid for his purchase and continued to make many others, all while he carefully observed the alley, making a mental map of each shop's location. That would be beneficial if he ever needed something in a hurry. At the stationer's, apart from ink, quills, and twice as much parchment as he would have bought if he hadn't remembered who he truly was, he also purchased a new rucksack. He considered buying a diary to jot down important dates, like exams or homework deadlines, but after the previous year's experience, he'd had quite enough of magical diaries. Harry then stopped by the Apothecary, where he took a half-hour break. He didn't just buy the essentials for his third year according to the list; he also took his time carefully selecting the ingredients himself.
His last stop was the bookshop. Harry immediately located the three books he would need for the course. Hagrid had already given him one of them. In fact, the shopkeeper seemed utterly relieved not to have to serve him a copy of "The Monster Book of Monsters." Harry understood this completely.
"Have you tried an Immobulus Charm?" he suggested.
"Well, no, young man. It hadn't occurred to me. I thank you for the suggestion."
"Do you mind if I look around the shelves in case I find something else that interests me?"
"Not at all. That would make things easier for me."
Harry understood at once why the man was saying that. There were quite a few people in the shop, and those unruly books must have been an added stress. He walked between the shelves, picking up a copy of "Hogwarts: A History" out of sheer habit. It was high time he found out what exactly they had written about him, and how they had so conveniently distorted the names and images of each of the founders. He then moved on to examine the potions section. He was thinking of catching up and finally shutting the mouth of that bat who called himself a professor. Harry didn't deny that Snape was good at potions, but he wasn't a suitable teacher to spark interest in the subject. He was not a good teacher.
While Harry was examining those books, he felt it: a familiar sensation, a familiar presence. It was her, the one who had known him best. The presence moved away seconds after he felt it. He quickened his pace towards the exit and looked out onto the street. He no longer felt it. He looked both ways. Students and adults were visible. Many appeared to be the students' parents, though there were also some young adults, and some were quite striking, like a girl with short pink hair who was walking away in the direction of the bank. Harry sighed, his gaze focusing on the students in their particular uniforms.
"Where are you?" he whispered.
Unable to grasp the presence any longer, he went back into the shop, placed the extra books with the others, and paid for all of them.